


Clinical Tuition

by nightram



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders' Clinic, Darktown Clinic, Developing Relationship, Discussion of Bethany Hawke, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Relatively detailed description of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is a conscientious warrior who wants to broaden her skills beyond sword slashing and shield bashing. What good is a fighter who can't patch up her own minor cuts? After the trauma of the Deep Roads expedition, Hawke decides it wise to visit her friend Anders at his clinic and seek some guidance in the field of medical care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elfroot

**Author's Note:**

> One of hopefully a few adventures in the Hawke introduction to first aid.

In her gear, Hawke’s gait was purposeful and solid. The shield slung over her shoulder clicked against the back piece of her plackart with each step. She grasped the hilt of her blade and tried her best, in vain, to draw little attention to herself.

Threatened by the notion of walking through Darktown unaccompanied, even if it were broad daylight, Hawke journeyed out in the majority of her armour sans her helmet, gauntlets and heavy supply satchel. She saw a few familiar faces, however most stirred unease in her gut. Wrapped away in layers of armour and pressed metal, she kept her line of sight straight ahead and did not grant anyone a second-glance of her frowning face as she made her way to the hidden clinic.

Reaching the tall, battered doors, she placed a leather gloved hand on the decaying wood and pushed. She hoped to enter as quietly as she possibly could.

In hindsight, Hawke could understand why the sudden appearance of an armour-clad mercenary struck fear in a few of the assistants’ hearts. She was quick to release the white-knuckled grip she held on her sword and relaxed her posture the best she could, offering an unsure smile to the assistant she had met and conversed with on occasion when collecting the local healer for her “errands”.

“How can we help you?” asked Hedric the older Ferelden nurse with a smile as he walked over wiping his hands on his tattered apron, “did you need to whisk Anders away on yet another traipse through the Deep Roads?”

“No, no, not this time,” the warrior laughed, “I just wanted to speak with him a moment if it wasn’t too much of a nuisance.” 

Easing her stance, Hawke allowed her shoulders to fall and shifted her weight to her left hip ever so slightly and glanced about the clinic. Hedric and the other head assistant Valerie, the quieter of the two, had dropped their tasks to greet their familiar guest. A few cots, but not most, were occupied. Potions, ingredients, bandages and what have you were strewn about the beaten-up infirmary on every available surface. A couple of patients are looking at her.

“He’s tending to birth outside of the clinic currently, but should be back soon if you’d like to wait,” Hedric explains, shuffling his feet in mild impatience, “I must get back to preparing these salves, if you’ll excuse me.” Turning on his heel, the dark-haired man returns to his station to the North of the room without hesitation. Valerie opens her mouth to say something, but decides against it and leaves also.

Not wanting to feel further like an intruder, Hawke keeps to the doorway and paces in a small circle, counting the missing nails in the boards beneath her feet. However this does not last long as she becomes alarmingly aware of how obnoxious the clanging of her metal suit must be to those resting in the clinic, and sets to removing some of her gear. She props her blade and shield against the corner where the walls meet, the armour covering her trunk joins it. Ultimately, she decides to remove everything bar her greaves and vambraces, and resumes hovering around the doorway in her leather padding and chainmail. 

It’s around twenty minutes when the rugged healer returns, short of breath. He looks exhausted, his hair messier than usual, eyes more sunken than she last remembered. Anders sees her as soon as he steps in the door and flashes a tired, toothless smile her way, but continues into the clinic with his rucksack in hand. Hedric and one of the younger nurses hurry to meet him. Taking the heavy bag from his hand, the two asking him how things went and give an update on any changes in his patients. 

Hawke waits quietly in her draughty corner, now leaning against the wall. She watches the exchange momentarily but averts her eyes when the three briefly look to her, now engrossing herself in counting what nails the floorboards do possess, seeing as that was easier to count. She brings her attention up as the ex-Warden approaches, arms somewhat held out in greeting.

“What brings you here?” he asks, a smile evident in his drained voice. Stopping just before her, Anders rests his hands on his hips and meets Hawke’s eyes with ease.

“I wanted to ask if there was any way I could help out around here, hopefully learn a bit about first aid and healing.” She notices the way her friend lifts his jaw slightly in question, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“Do you hope that if you learn all my tips and tricks you’ll be able to omit me from your adventures?” Anders teases, “I’d gladly do so if it means you don’t drag me into the Deep Roads. Once was enough with the Wardens, and again with you is not something I’d like to revisit.” Hawke shrugs.

“I have more time on my hands. I’d like to do something useful with it.”

“Oh I’m sure there’s many useful things you can with your hands and some time that I’d like to see, sweetheart” the man sniggers dryly, and turns his sight to thoughtfully look about the room seemingly to seriously consider her offer. The muscle in his neck tenses slightly. Hawke wonders whether it’s Justice’s silent retort.

“I suppose you couldn’t do too much damage with helping prepare some balms.” Musing quietly to himself, Anders looks about the room and continues to converse with himself aloud briefly. A decided “humph” is what draws Hawke from the world she had zoned off to while granting Anders some privacy with himself. He gestures for her to follow him, and leads her to a sectioned off corner of the clinic. It is predominantly shelves with different vials and tubs seemingly arranged in some apparent order.

“You can help me extract some elfroot. I’m running low on burn salves and might as well do that now,” the mage explains as he reaches up and pulls some items from the top shelf. Passing a large half-full flask and sealed tub to Hawke, Anders grabs a couple more things from the other shelves and leads her now to his desk.

“Pull up a seat.” 

He removes his feathered pauldrons, sitting the heavy garment over the back of his chair, rolls up his sleeves. He gathers a handful of papers that are strewn across the ink-stained wood and shoves them into a box which he then kicks underneath the table before taking a seat. Setting down the items he retrieved, Anders grabs the flask and carton from Hawke before she fetches a crate to perch herself on beside him.

“Elfroot is stored in a dry container,” the blonde man explains, opening the tub Hawke was previously holding and pulling out a cut plant to show her, “to extract it you need to crush it up with a mortar and pestle.” Grabbing the stone bowl sitting at the far edge of his weathered desk, Anders breaks up the dried plant and drops it in. The pestle grates against the stone and makes short work of the herb.

“It’ll release a pleasant fragrance if it’s left to dry for long enough.” Hawke leans forward to inhale the smell as Anders offers the bowl to her, and gives an acknowledging nod before the healer further continues his lesson. He scrapes the small amount of paste into another bowl and hands the mortar and pestle to Hawke.

“If you can grind some more of the elfroot for me, I’ll mix the liquids we’ll use to help it keep longer.” 

She takes the tools from his warm hands with a smile and dumps a small handful of elfroot into the stone bowl and sets to work, stopping momentarily to watch Anders as he carefully pours two blue coloured liquids into a clean jar. Deep in thought, he swirls the contents and sniffs if briefly before adding a pinch of a red powder, caps the jar and shakes it leisurely until the grit dissolves and the colour settles as a murky blue-grey. He glances at the broad woman beside him when he realises she’s no longer working and smiles at her.

“Are you done or are you too busy admiring my profile?” Anders asks with a wry smile, his eyes narrowing in the expression.

“Trying to figure out how many times your nose has been broken,” comes Hawke’s flat reply; her slight smile the only telling hint to her humour. She leans forward slightly to inspect his face.

“Hah, I’ll have you know it only happened twice,” he pouts, “Templars. Works well with my “handsomely rugged aesthetic”.” Hawke snorts at this.  
“What?”

“You’re crazy, you know that, right?” Hawke receives a snide eyeroll in response.

“Only for you,” Hawke thought she heard him say. When she looks to him he is turned away, seemingly drowning once more in his preparations. She sighs and returns to the task at hand.

Together, they sit as the noise of the clinic dies down over the hours; engrossed in their class nestled away at the back of the clammy infirmary. The two exchange questions and banter comfortably, both enjoying one anothers’ company. In a time of growing political and civil tensions, it was refreshing to lose oneself in the presence of a trusted friend. 

For uncounted hours they worked until Valerie, the shy nurse, nervously intruded and excused herself; informing Anders that it was late and she should go home now while it’s safest; that today’s patients had all been tended to and dismissed. She pushed a lock of auburn hair behind her freckled ear. Uneasy as she mumbled, Valerie handed the healer a list of everything that had been used today so he’d know what would require restocking. 

He turned a warm gaze to her. “Hm, thank you,” Anders nodded in appreciation while taking the parchment from her young balm-stained fingers. “You ought to get going now while the sun is still up. I want you getting home safe.” Slinging the discoloured bag of hers over her shoulder, the nurse gave a small wave as she exited the clinic.

“You should get going too.”

Hawke’s eyes were still on the door that the young nurse -- she was probably a few years older than her, but not by much -- had made her exit from, but dragged her line of sight to settle on the weathered man leisurely sitting beside her.

“For all your heavy armour, I doubt you’d survive a coterie ambush at night,” Anders states, absentmindedly running his hand across his stubbled jaw and up to tug at his once-pierced lobe. Hawke regards his features momentarily.

A muffled clink of a topped-up vial and the warrior rises from her makeshift seat. “I’m sure mother will be after my whereabouts.” Hawke feigns and exasperated sigh before she kicks the empty box she perched herself on, back under the table and heads over to her piled armour by the large doorway. She heaves the metal plackart over her shoulders and begins strapping herself in with trained ease. By the time Anders finishes returning his herbs and crockery to their proper homes, Hawke is hoisting her shield across her back and turns to him with a, somewhat weary, grin.

“Thank you for today. You’re an excellent tutor,” Hawke chortles in sincerity, pulling the strap on her sheath. “It’s always great to know what awful things go into those shitful tasting poultices of yours.”

“If they taste any worse in coming treks, it is because you had a hand in it, sweetheart,” he retorts with crossed arms and a cocked brow.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to help out again; I think it best be wise I learn some more about the medical field considering my, uh, career, I suppose you’d call it.”

“Plan to become a spirit healer yourself and boot me from my position as head doctor in your little entourage?”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” she sneers with her hand pressed to the door, “most definitely.”

“I will let Valerie and Hedric know to expect you. Just stand around the doorway and look like a well dolled up bodyguard if I’m not here. It’ll scare off the gangs.”

“You just want me for my body. I should be charging you more, Anders!”

“Your personality outshines your buffed and plated ego. And I pay you with my patience and company. Now off with you, before it’s dark and I have to organise you somewhere to sleep else you be knifed as soon as you’re out the door.” 

The two share a laugh before Hawke shoulders the wooden door open with a whine of the rusted hinges. A dusty, cold draught greets her; she squints her dark eyes, raises a hand to shield them and glances back.

“Stay safe, Anders.”

“You too, Hawke.”


	2. Anterior of the Forearm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was initially a quiet day at the Darktown clinic before Hawke comes by, and with good timing too. Doing her best to help with two patients, she sits and talks with Anders about her little sister Bethany and what has become of her.

It is the beginning of Spring and Anders is retrieving the empty plate he left outside his clinic’s door mid-morning. He is pleased to know that the local stray cats are finding his offerings during the night, and grins to himself as he stands back up. A look around the empty, grotty grovel confirms there are none of his furry friends in sight. Now if only they’d loiter about the clinic during the day, then he could coax them inside and he could have his own cats to love and pet throughout the long hours between patients and Hawke’s dangerous “outings”.

He wondered briefly if he’d see her today; visiting the clinic to follow up on her self-imposed lessons on medical aide. Although Anders had his friendly assistants to help him, he didn’t share quite as good a rapport with Hedric nor Valerie. They appreciated his jokes, Hedric more so than quiet Valerie, but nothing was quite comparable to the quips between himself and Hawke with the occasional contribution from Varric and/or Isabela. Although the latter two tended to set more of their humour at his expense more often than not. 

Returning inside, Anders dunks the dirty crockery held in his hand, deep into a filled bucket to wash off the residual milk and grit before setting it to dry on the splintered wooden benchtop. He wipes his hands dry on his quilted tunic while wandering over to Valerie who sits by the hazy window winding up cleaned bandages. She turns to him with a startled expression and once recovering, gives a slight nod in recognition.

“Uh, can- is there something you need of me?”

“No, no, just curious as to how you were going,” the mage smiles, “do you think we’ll need more gauze by the end of the coming week? I haven’t had the will to bother sitting and counting out how many yards we have of it, honestly.”

Valerie looks down to the half-wound strip in her hands, then to the table beside her which has multiple washed slivers waiting to be rolled up. “I… think there’s plenty to, uh, to last us, Messere,” the nurse murmurs, her pale eyes once more fixated on her agile freckled fingers.

Patting the back of her chair, careful to not disrespect her space and accidentally bump her, Anders gives an approving hum. “Be sure to let me know if that changes anytime soon,” he says graciously before turning on his heel and continuing around his dusty clinic. He contemplates giving the place a good clean, absentmindedly running a calloused hand through his caramel hair, but decides he can’t be bothered. It can wait for another day.

Anders pulls the worn elastic tie from his wrist and ties his ash blonde hair, or what he can of it at least, into a stunted ponytail and looks about the relatively open room. Hedric was not in today; it was his daughter’s birthday and seemed uneasy when informing Anders of his absence for the next few days. He’d felt the slightest sting of envy at the lack of such a parent in his own life, but the Justice inside was quick to stamp out the sin and their mind agreed that they would grant such an opportunity to every mage and their family when all was done.

Without warning the door burst open, ripping Anders from his reverie. Two elves, both obviously wounded, stumbled in through the threshold with difficulty. The taller of the two had badly broken forearm; the ulna had ruptured through the skin and likely the radius wasn’t in the best of shape either; multiple open wounds, and by the way their wrist was held, possible a severe sprain maybe even a fracture. Their companion wasn’t in any better form either; the thin woman was doubled over, clutching at her lower-torso, some clear bleeding from lashings of some form seeping through her shirt.

“What happened?” Anders rushes over and directs the pair to the nearest cots a few feet away. The shorter elf is carefully guided onto her cot by her concerned friend, both tight-lipped to answer. Likely they are the house servants to a family in Hightown and this is the result of unfulfilled impossible expectations. Anders accepts their silence and sets to work on assessing their conditions while Valerie is quick to bring some basic supplies over.

All four are startled by a rap at the entry moments later. 

Anders does well to not jolt his hand whilst carefully prodding at the swollen open wound on the taller elf’s forearm, Valerie however almost spills the bowl of warm water she was carrying and the elf now lying across her cot gasps in momentary panic.

Hawke peers her head in and finds Anders knelt by his patients. He gives her a brief glance before returning to his assessment.

“Your arm will need splinting, but I believe your friend’s condition will require my attention first,” the tall man explains, rising to his feet, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Please, help Devessa. I can wait,” comes the raspy reply; the elf pulling their knees to their chest, the cot sighing in protest from the shift of weight.

With a stifled sigh of disapproval, Anders frowns at the damage he is observing through the blue magic as it pools from his hands. Guiding them above the side of Devessa, the elf woman lies slightly curled into herself gritting her teeth in silent agony. There is neglect, which has been unattended for some time, has festered into a roaring infection that had previously lain dormant. He can feel the tension seeping off Hawke who stands behind him, observing him as he works.

All is quiet as the healer carefully purges the ill from his patient. It takes some time as he calls to the Fade; reaching in and grasping the helping hand of a sympathetic entity. He channels their strength and guidance through his tangible form and directs the energy through his outstretched fingers.

Anders gives a satisfied “humph” as he shakes out the cold tingling in his arms. “Is there any internal pain elsewhere that needs my attention?” he asks kindly, not rising from his kneeling position quite yet. Devessa gives a tired shake of her head in reply.

“Excellent. Well, Valerie,” Anders turns to the speckled woman who balances a full bowl in one hand and a bleached rag in the other, “could you please clean her up?” She gives a confident nod, quite a contrast to her usual demeanour, and sets straight to work.

“Have you ever re-set or splinted an arm, Hawke?” inquires the healer, “outside of a battlefield situation?”

Hawke takes a moment to watch Valerie as she wrings her cloth dry and begins cleaning up her patient. “Never had the pleasure,” she replies, still watching the nurse. “I suppose you’re about to show me how?”

“You’ll need to discard your armour before you do anything. I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you on this occasion, but maybe another time.” The laughter is drained from his voice, although Anders intended the comment to be a flirtatious joke; however playful words would not help this elf before him who sat in silent discomfort. He could stir Hawke later.

Anders pulls up a seat beside the cot. “May I ask you name?”

A moment of hesitation. “Tarel.”

“You’ve done well. I’m surprised you’re not unconscious, I imagine this would be burning like the fiery depths of the Blighted Deep Roads themselves.” He glances over his shoulder as the warrior disarming herself dropped her pauldrons with more of a clang than she had anticipated. The healer looks back to his client with a reassuring, although thin, smile. “I will need to get your arm back in place before I can heal it. It will hurt a lot, I'm sorry.”

Tarel gives an understanding nod. With an uneasy breath, they tuck the few fallen glistening strands of blonde hair behind a pointed ear and offers the mage their twisted arm. Tarel steals a glance over Anders’ feathered shoulder, an instinctive reaction as Hawke’s broad form returns to his side.

“Hold the elbow and place your other hand here to brace the joint.” Rolling her sleeves up, Hawke assigns her hands where instructed and looks to Anders for a nod of approval. He offers Tarel a rag to bite on, and repositions himself on his seat. 

Gripping the elf’s wrist, Anders gingerly clasps a bony hand a fraction of an inch before the aggravated open wound. He can feel the hot throbbing of the broken flesh under his cold grasp. The feeling never ceases to unnerve him.

“Take a deep breath in. And 3… 2…”

Hawke finds her vice tightening as she fights both the sudden force of Anders relocating the exposed bones and the yelp of pain that wracks Tarel; a gnarled scream ripping from the elf’s throat. Hawke is scared that if she strains her grip any harder, she’ll only hurt their patient more. Luckily Anders was swift; resetting the break in one fell swoop. It was a clean, clinical movement. Hawke relaxes her grip.

She watches in voiceless wonder as Anders mends the vicious wound with his magic. The inflamed skin fades and recedes; replaced by light, immature flesh which grows and takes on the same tint as the surface around it. The swelling beneath the surface ripples ever so slightly as it sinks back into itself, and she hears a relieved sigh, albeit stifled, seep from the healer’s mouth. Satisfied with his work, he retrieves a bandage buried in his pocket and with practiced ease, binds the site of injury to give the muscles time to recover.

Holding his hand out, Anders looks to Tarel. “I saw how you were holding your other wrist before when you walked in,” he speaks kindly, “let me take a look at it.” Using the same blue energy as before, he presses a careful hand to the joint and gingerly turns the delicate elven limb to analyse it fully.

“Does everything in the body have a name?” Hawke asks quietly as she leans forward over his shoulder to watch the healer’s work.

“Yes, every last one,” he replies with ease, although there is still tension in his shoulders and in the set of his jaw. The job is not finished yet, Justice reminds him. “These are the two bones in your forearm; the ulna being the larger of the two and radius the smaller. They join here at the wrist. Eight smaller bones reside in there.

Hawke looks on with wide eyes committing each place he points and names to memory. She’ll likely forget this by the end of the day, but this could be valuable knowledge and she does her best to retain it.

Finally done to a degree of refinery he is satisfied with, Anders looks up to Tarel and gives a reassuring grin. “I think that’s everything, unless there’s something else you’d like me to check over for you?”

“No. But thank you,” the elf replies dryly, “I- you have done us a great favour, thank you. Thank you so much.” Their eyes downcast, Tarel fumbles with the ripped hem of their hewn shirt. 

Hawke notices how stiffly Tarel hold themselves, but does not comment; nor does she comment later on how thin and gaunt the two had looked when the pair excuse themselves from the clinic much to Anders’ displeasure.

“Those two are in no state to be working,” Anders grumbles as he stands from his seat by the now vacant cots and skulks around to the door. Looking to see if the two elves were still in sight he knows full well they’d be hurrying to return to their homestead and gone within moments of exiting his clinic. It was still light outside, and the howling wind was muted to a quiet moan today.

“What names do the bones in our bodies have?” Hawke asks in hopes of distracting her friend from his thoughts. She knows fully well he would be stewing on the many woes found here in Kirkwall; not just the two patients he had seen off. Anders sighs in mild frustration but gives in to the interruption.

Returning to his seat by the cot, he rejoins Hawke and holds his hand out expectantly. “There are two-hundred and six bones in the human body, ignoring anomalies like amputations or genetic defects,” flexing his fingers, Anders looks to Hawke’s right arm pointedly; she places it in his hold. “We share similar structures to the Elves and Dwarves. Wouldn’t surprise me if those devastatingly muscular Qunari shared with us a few bones of their own, if you catch my drift.” A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his thin lips.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy that,” Hawke chortles, “Isabela too.”

“I reckon she’d likely already know,” Anders sniggers with a tinge of envy, glancing up to the warrior’s eyes momentarily before turning his attention back to their lesson.

“This is the Carpal tunnel, where the eight bones between the forearm and fingers converge.” Hawke’s skin tickles as Anders runs the his fingertip around the thick joint on the back of her wrist. She does her best to not squirm and willfully turns her arm when she is nudged to do so. 

Her thin, sensitive skin crawls as Anders traces the anatomical structures onto her flesh. “Here lies the scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate and hamate. There are five other ones hidden in there too, but I know you’ll forget the ones I just listed off anyway so I won’t waste my breath,” he teases, a slight tick of his homeland accent flipping through on the final word. He looks to her with a playful simper.

“Oh, I appreciate your consideration,” Hawke drawls with a mock-frown, “I’ve been hit one too many times in the head whilst not wearing a proper helmet, is that what you’re implying?” Anders snorts in an attempt to hold back a laugh in response.

“So the Mighty Hawke can in fact be bested in matters of memory and the academics.” Raising his brow, Anders straightens his posture and turns his cheek to her slightly; a teasing expression plastered on his rugged features. “I am now contemplating whether letting you be my temporary assistant was a wise choice. I simply could not have a barbarian with the intelligence of a doornail meandering around my clinic.”

“If worse comes to worse, I can take up position as your bodyguard as you suggested last time I was here,” the warrior shrugs with a narrowed gaze. “Maker knows I am the most amicable and competent mercenary an apostate can get. Also the most handsome one.”

“You’re never one to lack in confidence, sweetheart.” 

In his hand Anders still holds Hawke’s strong wrist. If he were to look hard enough, the marks of long healed scars are more noticeable than one would first assume. Like a web stretched out to it’s very limits, a network of pale marks weave their way up her muscular arm; toned with years of battle in heavy armour and living on the run. 

Hawke understood the risks a mage living outside the Circle faced; she lived it through her father and sister’s experience. It angered both Anders and the spirit of Justice residing in him to think of Bethany Hawke now crawling within the Gallows under the malicious eyes of Meredith, the Knight-Commander. It rotted the pits of his stomach in disgust.

“Do you hear from her often?” Anders asked; absentmindedly rubbing reassuring circles with the pad of his thumb on the vein-painted surface of Hawke’s skin. “From Bethany. Since the Knight-Captain took her to the Circle.” He watched the muscles in her throat stiffly swallow a lump that had developed, and the hesitation when she parted her lips to speak.

When she opened her mouth, Hawke had no words to share. She closed it quickly and glanced at his hazelnut eyes. Hastily averting her own; unable to bear the concerned and pleading expression across his weary face, Hawke bores holes into the ragged boarded floor.

Hawke does her best to swallow the bitter grief. “She sends letters when she can. Once a month if we’re lucky… I can’t bring myself to read them,” she murmurs, “I can’t forgive myself for leaving her behind.”

“And to have brought her into the Deep Roads instead? I feel something far worse than Templars could’ve happened to her down there, Hawke,” Anders utters in reply; leaning forward to try and catch her fixated stare. “What happened was out of your control.”

“But you don’t know for sure, Anders,” his friend sighs, “No one knows what might’ve happened instead… Mother says Bethany is happy in the Circle.” _“That she wishes I wouldn’t hate myself for it”_ she doesn’t add. Hawke takes comfort in his preoccupied touch upon her arm.

He wants to voice the loud thoughts rattling in his skull: that she should be blaming the Templars, not herself; that this is what every mage faces; that she should bear arms and fight back for their freedom; for his and Bethany’s freedom. But Hawke is hurting and this will be of no comfort to her. It’ll only drive her further from him. Maybe it’s what she needs, what _he_ needs, but for all he knows he cannot stop the want he feels; to comfort her, hold her. Justice disallows the fantasy in their mind to play out further.

“I know you want to say it,” Hawke mumbles, placing her free hand atop his; stilling his own and gripping his fingers tightly; “and I thank you for not doing so. I know how much this frustrates you.”

Anders finally catches her eye as she looks to him and notes the glistening around the corners. The touch is sombre, her tone to match. He wonders if she’s spoken about this to their friends, or even her mother.

Taking in a battered breath, Hawke does her best to smile. “Your compassion means the world to me, Anders.” He gives a sad, but genuine lopsided grin in return. 

The two stay like that for some time; enjoying each other’s silent company.


	3. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long night for Anders when Hawke visits his clinic that late morning. The exhaustion nags at his mind and nerves, but it is nice to see a friendly face.

Humming a familiar tune, one that she can’t quite remember the name of, Hawke gathers some food she’s prepared and carefully places it in her old leather satchel. There are some scones, muffins and club sandwiches -- all made to a reasonable standard. Cooking wasn’t exactly her strong point, but she had experience in preparing meals and snacks for her younger siblings when they were growing up.

Today Hawke planned to visit Anders’ clinic in Darktown, something she tried to do whenever time would allow her. She enjoyed learning about the ailments that existed in the world other than various broken bones, damaged organs and poisoned blades. She considered his lessons to be invaluable, and felt like she was really doing something with herself. Hawke really liked spending time with the mage. As Bethany had once mentioned quite some time ago, he held a resemblance to their departed father.

Hawke leaves her bag on the bench and trots out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her quarters to don her shined armour. It was never a wise decision to journey down Darktown unarmed and alone, even if she had walked the distance many times before. She had the feeling that her cellar might provide a shortcut; she vaguely remembers entering it through somewhere deep within the poverty stricken limits years ago with her sister. Hawke makes a note to check it out sometime soon -- maybe on her way back home.

Finally pulling the straps of her vambraces tightly and slipping on her gauntlets after fastening on the rest of her suit, Hawke retrieves her blade and affixes it to her hip and grabs her shield from its stand, slinging it over her shoulder. She clinks and clatters as she makes her way back down the flight into the main foyer. Her warhound joins her, sniffing at her hand.

“Hey there boy,” Hawke grins, scratching the heavy-set dog behind the ear with a taloned finger. She is greeted by a happy yelp and an enthusiastic tail wag in reply.

“Where’ve you been all morning? I’ve been in the kitchen for a good hour or so and you were no where in sight!” she gasps. “I bet you were riling up Bodahn’s son, weren’t you?”

“Arf!”

Hawke gives a musical laugh. “I knew it.” 

With a pat on his flat head, she returns to the kitchen and grabs her satchel. The mabari sits in the middle of the tiled floor and watches her gather her things. He tilts his head and whines upon realising she was preparing to go out.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You can spend more time with Sandal! He loves playing with you,” the warrior smiles, crouching before her beloved pet after she slips the strap of her bag over her pauldrons. She scratches his thick neck and runs her gauntleted fingers down his side.

“If you must, you can walk me to the door.” Hawke rises to her full stature and hitches her bag further up her shoulder. 

Grinding metal footsteps are followed by heavy plodding and the scrape of claws on polished floorboards as the two wander through the mansion. With a practised click of her tongue, the warrior calls for her dog to halt once the pair reach the grand front door of the Hawke estate. Patting him on the head fondly, the armed woman hauls the entryway open. She makes sure to close it behind her with an echoing bang and struts down the walkway and off to the clinic.

Hawke arrives at the doorstep of Anders clinic without much in the way of difficulties. A little short of breath from wearing so much on a warmer than average Spring day, she takes a moment to gather herself and swallows dryly before advancing.

The hinges open with a loud moan and a small cloud of dust slips in as Hawke enters. The first thing she notices is Hedric sitting at the bedside of a dwarf. There is another person laying in the cot beside her too. By the cabinet that acts as a proper wash bench with a steel bucket for a sink, hovers Valerie in a bloodsplattered skirt speaking with Anders who is tugging at his earlobe as he does. He looks tired, more so than usual if that were possible.

Valerie’s freckled face peers around Anders and lights up ever so slightly in recognition as Hawke makes her way over to the two. A timid smile from the woman is the only greeting she receives, but gladly accepts; it’ll take time but hopefully Valerie will work up to verbally greeting Hawke at her own accord someday soon.

“Been busy?” Hawke inquires, one hand on her hip and a warm expression across her features. She tried to get a good look at Anders -- study just how deep the shadows in his face had become, see how thin his skin appeared -- as he turns to her with a soft smile.

“Not today, no,” the healer exhales, “Just a long night.”

Her brows pull together and her head tilts. “You get called out on an emergency?”

“Everything to do with a person’s health is an emergency, but yes,” he shrugs, his voluptuous feathered collar hardly rising above his jaw.

Hawke lightly shoves his shoulder. “You ought to have a nap then, Anders,” she urges.

“There is work to be done,” Anders responds, although Hawke sees these as Justice’s words more than they are of the sleepless man whose voice they emerge from.

“Surely you can take a short reprieve,” the muscular woman groans, her heel digging into the ground and her shoulders squaring as she asserts herself without changing her friendly tone. “A man as busy as yourself must be hungry, and I’m willing to bet you haven’t had breakfast let alone thought about lunch. I know your appetite. Come on, I brought you food.”

Anders finds himself trying to not sink back while the broad warrior stares him down, and his assistant Valerie conjures her best expectant frown. Hawke isn’t wrong in her assumptions, but just because he only had time to sleep for an hour or two doesn’t mean that there weren’t things that need to be done today. Time does not wait for those who sleep.

But he was never good at refusing a pretty face. “Fine,” he concedes with a sigh. Justice roared at the man’s weak will.

Valerie watches Anders with a toothless smile as he gestures for Hawke to follow him and the two make their way to his quarters which was a small cupboard-sized room at the back of the clinic. The nurse always appreciated Hawke’s presence; she had a renewing quality about her and was better than Valerie ever was at getting the healer to do what was best for him like eat and sleep and simply enjoy himself every now and then.

The curtains are drawn, but golden light streams in through the moth-eaten holes and illuminates the cold space. Anders sits himself down on the edge of his cot. The blankets and pelt throw rug are in a tangled heap at the foot of the uncomfortable bed, and his gorgeous embroidered pillow seems out of place.

Hawke removes her full bag and sits it on the single crate beside the bunk. She props her shield against it and unties her sword. Looking around, she opts to rest the blade against the bare corner furthest from the windows and begins unstrapping and removing her gear leisurely.

“You can help yourself,” she speaks into her breastplate as she peels it off.

“Uh, no, I’ll wait,” Anders shrugs, unsure whether he should be watching her as she disarms herself with finesse. “It’s bad manners to go through others’ things, Hawke.”

As a mage, Anders had never had to wear the sort of gear that Hawke was now relieving herself of. He had only ever had to worry about tunics and coats and light armour made of skins and leathers. They were most beautiful, and most definitely reflected the once overly flamboyant and vain attitude he held before he had left Ferelden. What Hawke wore was heavy and time consuming and stifling and loud. He marvelled at how easily and systematically she unbelted each strap and the care she took in transposing her worn shielding into a careful pile on his dusty floor.

“It must get hot under all that,” he finds himself thinking aloud, transfixed. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Hawke glances at him, discarding the last of her belongings and smooths out the thick assemblage of quilted fabric and leather protective gear she wears underneath, she takes up a seat on the crate and pulls her satchel onto her lap. 

“The only time I’m not sweating up a storm in there is when I’m trudging through snow,” she chortles, arm buried in her bag, “and I can count the number of times I’ve been stuck in snow on both hands.” Anders stifles a weak laugh.

“Here, I made these,” Hawke grins and hands a wrapped parcel to him. Shoving her bag aside and opening her own cloth package, she pulls out a neatly cut sandwich and bites into it. 

“I’m not going to spit this out because it’s awful?” Anders teases, unveiling the little slices in his hands.

“I hope not,” his friend frowns, not entirely pleased with his little joke, “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer so I made a few different ones.”

Barely a metre in front of where he sits, Hawke leans forward and points to each different filled sandwich individually. “This is ham, cheese and tomato, uh, that’s just plain cheese, that’s lettuce, tomato and dressing, and oh what was that one again, uh, oh yeah, and that one’s tuna and pepper.”

Anders looks up at her with a warm smile. “Thank you, Hawke.”

“You’re welcome. You’re a busy man and I know you don’t like taking payment for what you do here, so I’m sure you don’t have much in the way of nice food,” she grins. There’s a bit of lettuce stuck between her teeth. 

“You once mentioned the ravenous hunger that comes with becoming a Grey Warden. Figure it’s part of the reason why you’re just skin and bone. Now eat up.” Hawke playfully pats him on the knee and leans back into her seat, stuffing her face.

Anders wastes no time filling his desperately empty stomach, the half-chewed mouthfuls barely touch the sides of his gullet on the way down. It’s been a long while since he’s had a nice homemade meal, or even eaten with company. 

Sometimes his assistant Hedric’s husband will kindly send salted meats and bread for Anders. He does his best to respectfully refuse the unwarranted charity, but upon Hedric’s insistence, gives in. 

He makes sure to leave the slice of tuna untouched so he may set it out with his saucer of milk tonight for the local strays.

Hawke pulls a flask from her bag and gulps down some refreshing water and offers it to Anders. He takes a swig from it and gives a satisfying “ah”. Handing it back, he thanks her again.

“But wait, there’s more!” Hawke beams, a giggle escaping her lips and produces two more bundles that are noticeably larger than the sandwich parcels. She hands them to Anders with a prideful air.

“You don’t have to eat them right away, or at all really, if you’re not a fan just,” she shrugs, “pass them on or something. There’s blueberry muffins and some scones in there for you to snack at.”

“Oh- no, Hawke I can’t accept all this,” the man modestly refuses, pushing the gifts back into the thoughtful warrior’s arms.

“Please, I insist. I made them for you, Anders.” It is more assertive than pleadful, Hawke’s expression.

“Hawke, I-”

Suddenly her eyes go hard and her face sets in a deepening scowl. Her face reminds him too much of Aveline in this moment. Her tone is demanding: “Take them.”

Anders hesitates, stares at her. He doesn’t want to accept her charity, he feels like a burden; requiring his friends to feed him and take care of him. Her kindness touches him; tugs at the strings of his heart. But if he refused her gift, he’d offend her and honestly, he was so hungry. And so, so tired.

Hawke smiles in sweet satisfaction when Anders gives in and takes the treats from her. She angles herself further towards him, a smug grin plastered on her face held so close to his and gives a small “hah” before retreating back into her own space with a thoughtful smile. 

“You know, it’s okay to accept things from people,” she muses aloud.

Anders watches her, reeling slightly from having her momentarily so close. That was unexpected and flustering for his poor nerves.

“You do a lot for the disadvantaged people of Kirkwall, and me, Anders, you deserve to be rewarded and appreciated,” Hawke turns to him with a concerned look, “I’ve seen you. Why do you refuse so insistently?”

“Because what is there for a possessed apostate with nothing to his name to give in return?” he answers flatly, directing his gaze to the floor and toys with his left coat sleeve.

Hawke searches for his eyes; slumps down a bit to try and catch them as they fixate on the splintered floor beneath his feet. “We don’t- well, _I_ certainly don’t expect riches from you, Anders. And I never will. Your companionship is all I ever ask for in return.”

When he is silent for too long, Hawke reaches forward for his hand that nervously toys at the hem of his coat with blunt nails. Taking it, she cups it within her own and watches him. She feels his fingers grasp at her palm and can see the grief pull at his shoulders.

She sits with him like that for a while. There isn’t anything she can say without him feeling worse, she fears. He probably feels bad enough as it is.

The warmth of her is what keeps Anders from falling apart in sadness and shame in that moment. He was nothing, is nothing and will continue to be nothing in his eyes. All he was now was the proxy of Justice’s change to free the world of Thedas’ from it’s own chokehold on it’s mages; it’s light. Sometimes, in moments like this, he wonders if merging with the spirit was a mistake. He chases away this notion as quickly as it rises.

Anders draws a shaky breath and finally meets Hawke’s gaze with reddened eyes. He looks at her, through her. He tries to find why she tolerates his foul attitude, his outbursts, his rudeness, his everything. He finds only his nothing.

“I worry about you,” Hawke admits, grip on his hand tightening, grounding him to this moment to her stinging words. “I care about you, Anders, and I want to see you happy.” He feels another wave of nauseating shame rise in his throat.

“Your concern with only bring you disappointment,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for her or even himself to hear. Anders once again averts his eyes.

He can’t tell her how much this hurts him; this moment with her. He can’t tell her the affection he’s tried so hard to not cultivate over the time he’s known her; the dampened fizzling where her hands meet his, the hitch in his breath when he sees her. It is like a weed that will not die. A stunning, and persistent weed. 

He can feel she holds more than mere friendship for him, Varric has suggested so on many occassion, but it will not bring neither of them joy. Of this he is sure. He will become the twisted monster the Templars fear so much, and he will hurt her and he will destroy her. There is nothing he can offer her other than death and ruin.

What could a possessed apostate ever hope to offer?

“My concern is my decision that I am responsible for, what becomes of it is mine to manage,” Hawke frowns, bending closer. He can smell the leather she wears. “You are not responsible for me, or anyone.”

This doesn’t help him, but he pretends it does. Anders meets her gaze and feigns a submissive smile but he does not move to pull his hand from between hers. He was always a selfish man.

“Come, let’s get on with today,” Hawke beams, “enough groveling in negativity.”


	4. Inventory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a humid past few days, and the clinic's potions stocks are running low.

Slicking back the strands that had fallen from his ponytail, Anders pulled in a deep breath to calm his mind. He was standing before his desk, gathering his thoughts and figuring out what to do. It was a hot and humid day and the stifling air did not help his persistent headache.

He had discarded his feathered shrug and his quilted coat hung from his lithe waist; thick belt holding it in place. Scratching at his growing beard, he picked up a page of his manifesto, glanced over it and tucked it away with the others in his carved jewelry box.

Today had once again been quiet; Anders had been blessed with a relatively stress-free week. Just as well, it had been muggy recently, and the weather was unseasonable enough for him to want to avoid venturing out. He’d spent most of this week in various states of undress; nothing appropriate enough if he were jumped by the gangs and wanted to escape without more than a few scratches. 

Hopefully, Hawke would come by today to lend him a hand. Hedric was busy tending to a young boy from the docks who dragged himself in with a serious case of heatstroke and a plethora of unexplained cuts and bruises, and Valerie had been away the past fortnight visiting family in Starkhaven, so Anders couldn’t ask either of them to pick up the lengthy list of supplies he required. That, and he didn’t trust them to be able to tell good produce from mediocre. 

With a sigh, Anders picks up his shopping list and looks it over, walking to the storeroom tucked away to double check his needed quantities. He needed, let’s see, deep mushroom, concentration agent. More flasks. One can never have enough flasks.

Hedric shouldn’t have been surprised when he spots Hawke strutting into the clinic as if it were her second home. The old man was watchful of her. He liked her, of course, she was courteous and capable, but she held more influence over Anders than she realised and he worried that the healer’s gravitation towards her would draw him too often from his much needed presence here in Lowtown. Hedric was never entirely sure if she was entirely aware of this or not.

“‘tis pleasant to see you, Hawke,” the wrinkled man huffs as he ties one of multiple bandages wrapped around the dark boy perched on the frame of a cot sipping from a bladder. The boy peers over Hedric’s slouched shoulder to get a better look at the woman he hears whispers of on the docks.

“As always,” the warrior bows, her stuffy armour making a racket at the motion, “how are you handling the humidity, _Serah_?”

“With anticipation for it to end sooner rather than later,” Hedric admits, rolling his stiff neck and leaning back in his seat. “How can you possibly be out in all that with weather like this?”

Laughing, Hawke begins removing her portable metal sauna. “Well, it’s not easy.” As per usual, she ceremoniously organises her gear in a heap beside the battered doors as out of everyone’s way as she can.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t recommend undressing quite yet,” came the playful voice of Anders as he emerges from the stockroom with his updated checklist. “We’re having some retail therapy this afternoon, and we don’t want your arm getting chopped off by the coterie, now do we?”

“Coterie or not, Anders, I am _not_ walking around the markets in full gear,” Hawke scowls, kicking her couter and tassets aside in the corner. 

“Sword and sheild, sure, but not all of _that_ ,” she looks pointedly at the pile of metal decoratively beaded with droplets of sweat beside her. Plucking her weapons out from the meticulously arranged heap, she belts her blade to her waist and rolls up her sleeves. “I doubt they’d bother us in broad daylight anyway. You’re being pedantic.”

“You’re sounding awfully casual about this considering we’ll need to, you know, negotiate the entire of Darktown to get to the markets.” A blond brow rises above his eye and Anders does his best to keep a well tempered smile on his face. He worried for his safety continuously; it all came in the stressful bundle that is the poverty-stricken apostate lifestyle. And naturally, he was concerned for Hawke’s well being also.

“Anders, please,” the woman places firm hands on her hips, “we’ll be fine. As long as we aren’t out for too long and avoid picking any fights, there’ll be no dramas.” Hawke locks him firmly with her glower and squares her stance, trying to intimidate Anders into submission. He was tall man, so her height did little to challenge him however her strong build and personality outshone his lithe and the more timid nature he presented.

Holding her gaze, he deliberates whether he should insist she at least wear her breastpiece or follow her demands and stop pulling his hair out over “what ifs”. He must concede, she is right, it is the middle of the day; too many around to witness a mugging. And it wasn’t like other parties like the Templars ever frequented the stalls either, and even if they did, Hawke holds enough coercion to insist they turn their cheek. It was too clammy to consider tugging his coat on or retrieving his feathers anyway.

“Fine.” Justice is quiet; whether the spirit is entirely displeased or not, is yet to be seen. Hawke grins and tucks her damp leather gloves under her belt.

“Is this what we need to get?” Hawke closes the distance between them and takes the list still grasped in Anders’ hand, looking it over and recognising some of the supplies listed.

“Your fortitude continues to impress me,” Hedric teases, however his tone is devoid of anything other than apathy. He has finished tending to the boy; them both now watching the two. Anders shoots him a narrowed frown.

“Let me get my staff and we can get going.” Hawke gives a nod and a smile, and watches as he walks off; observes the shift and tight sway of his hips.

She turns her attention to the child now finished being checked over by the aged nurse. The boy is tanned from sunlight, and there’s the pink of its burn across his cheeks and nose, and there is a speck of regurgitated food caught in the corner of his lip. Hawke prefers to not reflect on how he possibly acquired his injuries.

Hedric gently pats the boy on the knee and gives a warm toothy grin. His rumbling voice is hard to make out as he instructs the child on what to do to care for himself, and to come back if he feels any worse. Hedric always had a very big heart, especially for the children who came into the clinic.

“Come,” Anders beckons, emerging from his quarters, hewn stave in hand, and struts to the threshold, “I hope the cold change comes through while we’re out. By Andraste’s flaming knickers, it’s hot.”

With a chortle Hawke waves at Hedric and his patient, then turns on her heels and promptly follows Anders out the door. It was just as muggy outside as it was inside, except indoors offered a hiding place from the searing sun. Luckily most of Darktown was enveloped in shadow, but the air noticeably thickened as the pair made their way up the stairs to the markets of Lowtown.

“Guh, why must this weather plague us, honestly,” Anders complains, loosening the tie at the collar of his thin tunic and exaggerating the effort it takes to haul his weight, using his staff for unrequired aid.

“I thought you’d be living it up, Anders.” Hawke stands at the top of the cobbled flight of stairs and watches the mage as he whines his way up. “I mean, look at all these gorgeous people dressed appropriately for the weather: mildly revealing attire as far as the eye can see!”

“I’m afraid my skin is too clammy to appreciate a nice arse at the moment,” the mage does his best to hide a laugh with a fake sigh. He meets Hawke atop the case and grins down at her, admiring the way the sun catches the light sheen on her face.

“Alright, you know what we’re looking for. Lead the way.”

Falling into stride beside him, Hawke follows Anders through the crowded market place. It was loud and more than one person bumped into her on accident. There was also the odd familiar face, but no one who warranted a pause to exchange pleasantries with thankfully. She wasn’t particularly in the mood.

As Anders led the way through the throng of people in the marketplace, he felt a tug at his belt which still held his coat lazily around his waist. He glances down to see Hawke’s finger hooked around it and her shadowed frown. She never did well in crowds as thick as this and didn’t want to lose him.

“‘ow may I help you?” the auburn haired merchant of Lowtown’s Trinkets Emporium asks politely and fanning herself with a closed leather book. She is standing behind her table, sleeves rolled up and dirty skirt hems tucked into her waistband. At least the buildings behind cast some shade onto her, Hawke thinks.

“Hello, would you happen to have any potion making ingredients available, or preferably any flasks?” Anders asks as he pulls out his list from who knows where.

“Mmm, I don’t think I do ‘onestly, but I’ll ‘ave a look for you, _Serah_.”

“Have we not collected enough ingredients on our outings?” Hawke asks as the merchant ducks under her table to check the crates of stock she keeps underneath the tablecloth.

“I’m afraid not. I go through everything so quickly,” wiping at his brow he exhales deeply, “no amount of scouring bushes off roadsides could ever hope to keep up.” Hawke’s mouth creases with her displeasure.

Getting up off her knees and brushing them clean the merchant places her hands on the table and leans over, her brows pulled together in an unsatisfied expression. “I’m sorry, _Serahs_ ; got nothin’ in the way of potions making -- only a couple potions themselves.”

“That’s alright,” Anders turns a lopsided grin to the woman, “thank you for looking though.”

“Anytime,” she grins, head tilted, “do come back again. I’ll keep an eye out for anythin’ of the sorts if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that.” With the exchange over, Anders looks back to Hawke and with a nod of his head, gestures in the direction he plans on heading next. He scratches his stubble for a moment. “We’ll try Lirene’s store, she normally sets things aside for me.”

Saying a goodbye to the merchant, Hawke snakes her finger into Anders’ belt loop once more as they negotiate the dense flowing crowd and make their way towards the upper-level. She is sure to hold the hilt of her blade in her free hand, careful to not let the tail end bump into someone or to have it somehow stolen from her. She keeps the strap of her shield taught over her shoulder.

A bell chimes as the door swings open, a warm gust of air following the pair as they charge in eager to escape the Spring heat. Hawke glances about the familiar room, taking in the similarities and differences when she were first here in search of Anders for his maps over a year ago. She wouldn’t have known the shopkeeper Lirene from a bar of soap had she passed her in the streets, but hearing the notable Ferelden accent erupt from her lips jogged Hawke’s memory.

“Ah, I’m surprised to see you on such a balmy day, Anders, but it is a pleasure nonetheless.” Walking over with arms held wide, short Lirene inspects the healer before embracing him tightly in greeting. She had gone to great lengths to hide his whereabouts from suspicious parties and funneled patients through to him when he had first settled in Kirkwall. “How have you been?”

“Quite well thank you, Lirene. I see your shop has been doing well since I was here last,” Anders muses, stepping back from his friend and admiring the state of her store. The floors had been revarnished, the once prominent splinters removed and now smoothed over. There were some refugees and patrons present too, both going about their business with the assistants.

The merchant beams with evident pride as she answers. “Very much so!”

Turning to Hawke, there is a moment of hesitation before her eyes light up on recognition. “You’d be Hawke, yes? I remember when you came asking about Anders,” Lirene asks with confidence. 

“I trust you’ve been well?” Hawke nods.

“Well, how may I help the two of you?”

“I’m making the rounds in hope of finding some supplies to restock my clinic with,” explains Anders as he passes his slip of parchment to her now outstretched hand. He moves to stand beside her and points over her shoulder. “At the moment I’m in most need of the mushroom and agents. If you had anything, I’d gladly exchange it for coin.”

“Don’t worry, I have what you need.” 

Taking the list, Lirene waves her guests behind the counter and leads them through the barred door into her reserves. Stopping before one of many growing shelves, the woman glances between the inventory in her hand and her supplies. Finger pressed to her lower lip, she clicks her tongue and mutters to herself.

Lirene grabs a woven bag off the floor. It holds something in it already, although nothing too light and apparently of any importance to her as is evident as soon as she glances in and begins filling it. She drops in some unmarked boxes and containers, and there is the familiar clinking of empty glass bottles as the bag in her hand increases in girth.

Anders is quick to retrieve his coin purse as soon as Lirene begins to fill the sack. He fumbles with the clasp as he adds up the worth of the inventory in his head. Hawke delves into her pants pockets and gropes around for her own coin.

Lirene hands the clattering bag to Anders.“Here, this should be everything on your little list,” the kind merchant reports. She brushes her hands on her skirts and leads the pair back out to the desk she stood behind when they entered..

Anders holds out a closed fist to her. “Please, take these for your troubles.”

Giving him her palm, Lirene counts the silvers and coppers dropped into it. “Oh thank you, you don’t need to give me so much though, it’s fine.”

“No, I won’t allow you to accept any less, Lirene, you have a business to run and mouths to feed,” replies the man sternly. Lirene nods silently in appreciation, and Anders smiles on her agreement.

“We should let you get back to work.” Pulling the strap over his shoulder, Anders bows his head. “Thank you for all this, Lirene. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he chortles.

“Probably starve,” she sneers humourously, “do visit again. It is always good to see a familiar face.”

“I’ll be sure to. Enjoy the rest of your day, Lirene,” he farewells, a laugh tugging at his light voice. The two exchange a simple wave. 

Hawke drops the two silvers she has into the donations box on their way out, and braces herself for the stifling air as Anders pulls the door open. He presses a hand to the small of the back as he allows her to step outside first.

Standing on the fringe of the crowd, the friends enjoy the shade cast over them. “Is that everything you needed?” Hawke raises her free hand up to shield her face from the reflective glare. Anders is evidently satisfied when he answers with a pleased “yes”. 

“Let’s get back to the clinic,” he suggests. Hawke sneaks her hand under his arm to lock them together, eager to not be pulled apart when they weave through the crowd once more. They exchange shy smiles and carry on about their afternoon.


	5. Templars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes her usual journey to Anders' clinic and finds two Templars in Darktown, and unusual and alarming sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this as an intermission as opposed to an actual addition.

When Hawke saw the two Templars wandering near the more cast-off end of the slums, she was immediately worried. It was only a matter of time before the whispers of the “healer in Darktown” and his miraculous work reached suspicious ears. Knight-Commander Meredith, swallowed by bordering irrational fear, was determined to stamp out any possibility of unrestrained mages practising blood magic on the vulnerable and weak turning to it in seek of control.

The warrior had been making her way to Anders’ clinic that afternoon with a little satchel of pastries to share with her friend. She decides to approach the two Templars; their faces are familiar to her, but she doesn’t know them by name.

“Excuse me, _Messeres_!” she calls out, her heavy gear groaning under her weight and making a clatter as she speeds up her pace slightly to meet them before they descend a battered staircase. The taller of the helmed paladins turns upon hearing her call.

“Ah, would you be _Serah_ Hawke?” A reverberating sing-song voice under the silver helmet inquires, head bowing slightly.

“Aye,” Hawke replies, standing before the two, “I am.”

“What can we do for you, _Serah_?” The shorter soldier asks in a less polite voice.

The first Templar removes their helmet and unveils a thick head of curling black hair. She smiles at Hawke with burning caramel eyes and her speckled cheeks crease at their corners. Her companion does not spare the same courtesy.

“Might I ask what business you have here in Darktown?” Hawke straightens her back and tugs at the strap of her shoulder-bag. “I mean, it’s not often you see the Order around here -- at least, not what from I’ve noticed.”

“No you may not ask, _Serah_ , and you will refrain from doing so in future,” the masked knight snaps, motioning to step towards her in defense. The taller of the two puts her arm out to still her partner and gives a chastising frown.

“You know, that attitude doesn’t reflect well on us as a whole, Ser Gault,” she sighs, jaw clenched. She tucks her pristine helmet under her strong arm and bows her head at Hawke.

“I apologise for my colleague. The Order are trying to increase our presence around Kirkwall,” the Templar’s heels click as she stands to attention. “We want to remind people that we are here to protect them, no matter whether they are rich or poor.”

Hawke finds herself unable to fight back a grin upon hearing this. Although they may not have always gone about things in a way Hawke agreed with, or even held the same beliefs in her, it was soldiers such as the grand woman who stands before her that she could respect. There were people on any side of any war who believed that they were making a difference and helping those who were most vulnerable. 

For taking Bethany away from her family, Hawke will struggle to ever forgive, but she had a good enough head on her shoulders to not blame every individual bearing the flaming sword of Andraste for an evil they never personally committed against her. Even Ser Cullen, the Knight-Captain who escourted her little sister out of her arms, she did not blame, although she would resent the bitter taste of tears in her mouth whenever she saw him. 

How her heart ached for her baby sister.

“I think we’ve dilly-dallied enough, Ser Le Jeune, unless you plan to keep me here until supper telling this woman your life goals?” huffs Ser Gault, exasperation thickening their rattling voice. The helm barely moves, stationary, a contrast to the expressive fit of frustration sounding from it.

Visibly biting her tongue, the Templar concedes with a respectful bow. “We ought to keep moving,” she hums, “but it was a pleasure meeting you, _Serah_ Hawke.”

“Likewise.” Hawke bends her neck in turn before Ser Le Jeune dons her helmet once more. Without a second glance, the two continue following their intended path and descending the stairs leading further into Darktown. 

She watches with bated breath, hoping, praying that they don’t make the right turn leading to Anders’ clinic. What if they do? Hawke doubts she could run ahead and warn him without looking suspicious unless she cut through a back alley and that would be inconceivably dangerous. But then again, how many times had she risked herself for Bethany’s safety? Anders deserved freedom just as much as she.

And what of Justice? The spirit would never tolerate incarceration, Anders’ fear would unleash the unearthly being in an instant.

Thankfully, thank the Maker, the pair make a sharp left and continue along the more lit path. Hawke counts her blessings, and hurries along in turn.


End file.
